


I'm Not Okay

by yokomya



Category: Degrassi, Degrassi the Next Generation, Degrassi: Next Class
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:09:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yokomya/pseuds/yokomya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just go."</p><p>“I’m not going anywhere, Miles.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Okay

All he needs is another pill. Just one.

For the love of God, just _one_.

Miles paces the locker room, heart beating so fast he thinks it’s going to explode out of his chest. Esme didn’t have anymore pills to give him after he so stupidly flushed the last batch. What was _wrong_ with him? How could he do something that idiotic? And how the _hell_ was he supposed to get through the rest of school without the pills?

Suppressing a scream, Miles slams a palm against a locker - grinding his teeth from the pulsating pain. It hurts. Everything _hurts_.

For a moment, his vision goes out of focus and his head swirls. Shit, he needed those pills.

His phone buzzes on the ground - _when did it fall out of his pocket?_ \- but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. Any name that pops up on that screen means nothing. Why should it?

 _Nobody_ cares about him.

Anytime now the lunch bell will ring out and the halls will fill outside. He had to get out of here. He couldn’t _be_ here.

Snatching the phone off the ground and slinging his bag over his back, he leaves the locker room. The halls are still desolate, quiet, and so bright it makes him squint. The small squeaks his shoes make on the floor are like nails screwing into his ears.

As if trying to find the exit isn’t hard enough, his heartbeat keeps jolting and his breath hitches as he paces, reminding him more and more that he’s derailing. If only he had those freaking pills. He’ll _never_ flush them again.

Miles swallows and runs a hand through his hair, clutching at where his bag strap is straining his torso. It’s so hard to _breathe_. He jerks at the strap and throws the bag to the floor, drawing in an unsteady breath. It’s too shallow, not helpful at all.

_I can’t do it. I can’t breathe._

_Make it stop._

There’s that familiar jitter in his fingers and legs, _everywhere_ \- the pain and panic, the anxiety, it all creeps in and it _hurts_ -

The exit isn’t far now but Miles can’t get himself to go. His legs are shaky but they don’t move like they should. _Go_ . _To the door. Go forward._

Going lightheaded, he sways, banging his hands into the wall to keep from falling over.

 

“Miles?”

 

There's no way. This must be a joke.

He knows that voice.

 

“Uh - what are you doing?”

 

It’s Tristan. That’s probably the last person who needs to see him like this. Out of all the people to be strolling in the halls. Miles grits his teeth.

"Get lost."

He half expects it not to work but it does. Tristan turns around, leaving him alone again. Miles wonders what his expression must have been like. Probably thought he was high or something. The drugs aren't exactly a secret. And he probably thinks he's crazy by now. Like everyone else. It's best that he stays away. 

Miles can barely stand or speak but he collects himself against the wall, resting his forehead to it. It doesn't help. Why doesn't anything ever work? Nothing _helps_. 

"Okay - What's wrong?" 

Tristan again. He's walking up the hall, determined. Apparently he doesn't get a hint. Miles clenches his fist against the wall, hiding his face further. 

“I’m _fine_. Leave. Me. Alone.”

Good. He managed to say it without throwing up. Because right now, he thinks he’s so sick he might just do that. When he can’t hold it in anymore, he inhales again - a harsh sound that startles them both.

“Really? Because you look like you’re about to pass out,” Tristan snaps. “I’m getting someone.”

The panic flares and Miles turns around to face him, one hand steady on the wall.

“ _Don’t_.”

Tristan’s eyes examine him carefully - they’re a little shocked, a little _scared_. And at first, Miles assumes it’s because he’s scared _of_ him but that’s not it. He’s scared _for_ him.

“I’m getting someone,” Tristan repeats, softer this time, stepping backwards.

“No, they’ll call my parents, please don’t do that,” Miles breathes out hastily, sweat beading on the back of his neck, beneath his collar. He squeezes his eyes shut because of the crushing pain in his lungs.

“You’re sick, Miles. You need help - “

“I said I’m fine!”

His voice vibrates and his knees go weak. He coughs and drags his nails on the wall as his body eases to the ground, convulsing.

 _Make it stop_.

Miles shuts his eyes and clutches his hair, withdrawing another short breath. As soon as they find out about the drugs, it’s over. His mom will yell. His dad will hit him. Just like always. They don’t care. It doesn’t matter.

“Miles, hey,” Tristan bursts, dropping his stuff so he can kneel on the floor. His hands are gentle as they glide on top of Miles’ shoulders, steady and careful.

“You’re gonna be okay. We’ll go to the nurse,” he reassures, eyes lowering to Miles’ own. “You’re okay.”

“No, stop saying that,” Miles chokes out. He’s never been allowed to cry so he won’t. Even if he’s terrified of the shuddering in his wrists and the crushing weight of his chest caving in - _he won’t cry_.  

“It’s okay, Miles, you’ll be - “

" _Shut up_."

"Miles - "

“I’m all screwed up,” Miles shudders, sniffing, scraping at the back of his head. “It’s just - all of it - and I can’t -”

He rocks back and forth, wishing it all away. This is probably a panic attack. Some kind of anxiety thing. Esme mentioned them before.

“I’m here,” Tristan assures - because he probably doesn’t have the faintest idea of how to deal with this. Why should he? What was the point?

“Just go,” Miles cringes, biting the inside of his cheek. He stares at Tristan through half lidded eyes.

 

_Why stay? There's nothing here for you. You deserve so much better._

 

“I’m not going anywhere, Miles.”

It's the most serious he's ever sounded. Coughing wildly, Miles gasps for air as a tremor shoots through his arms. He blinks back tears.

“Hey, you need to breathe,” Tristan orders, still pretending to keep it together. He rubs Miles’ shoulders and arms, so careful - like he’s afraid he may make it worse. Miles reaches out blindly, finding Tristan’s hand, holding onto it so that _something_ can ground him.

“I can’t,” he admits, shutting his eyes to focus. Everything whirls.

“Okay, uh - um, take a deep breath,” Tristan stutters, breathing in loudly so that Miles will do the same. His head is spinning and his lips part but he tries. It's so damn hard. His lungs won’t fill. No matter how hard he sucks in, the air can’t seem to go in like normal. It's excruciating. 

“Here, you just - You hold it in,” Tristan blurts, breathing in a second time. Miles follows, because what choice does he have? It’s like being on autopilot. His body is fighting to survive. That’s all. He’s barely conscious.

Inhaling deeply and holding it doesn’t really work the first time. But he does it again. And again. And it helps after a while. His shaking isn’t as bad, his throat isn’t as tight, his chest isn’t as constricted. The pain starts to disappear. 

“I need to get the nurse,” Tristan is whispering - more to himself at this point - but Miles squeezes his hand, head shaking.

“What were you - why were you in the hall?” he mutters, inhaling again, knee jutting out from the built up nerves. Anything to distract Tristan from getting an adult. Anything to distract himself from this attack.

“Miles - “

“Talk to me, please,” Miles exhales, another deep breath. He scoots closer to him, head low. “Please, Tristan.”

 

_Don't get my dad. Don't get my dad._

_Don't go._

_Don't leave me alone._

 

It's quiet as Tristan studies his features, silently deciding what to do. An understanding seems to pass over because maybe out of everyone - Tristan _does_ understand. More than Esme. More than his parents. More than his siblings. He seems to catch on to that hidden fear.

"If you _must_ know, I went to pee," he states, putting on a brave front. Because they both know this panic attack terrifies him the most. 

And that makes Miles smile. An actual smile. 

The anxiety is still lingering but it’s calmed a lot. His breath has gone more even. The whole thing was so surreal. Like a wild nightmare. He raises his head enough to look at Tristan. 

They sit there while the panic goes down and the shaking stops and neither of them move apart. 

“You okay?” Tristan asks slowly, looking down at where their hands are still connected and then back up at Miles’ face.

Miles could lie. He could say _yes, I’m great, now get away from me_ or maybe just stand up and say nothing. Because, really, what did it matter? He needed those pills and he was suffering from the withdrawal. That’s it.

But. . . 

Tristan still hasn’t let go of his hand, even after all the shit Miles said and did - he’s still sitting here, still showing genuine concern, like Miles matters. He isn't going to hurt him for telling the truth. 

So, maybe it was never the pills that Miles needed. 

His voice is low and uneasy but he let's it out anyways because for the first time in a long time, he feels safe. 

 

“No, I - I’m not okay."

 

The heaviness inside lifts a little. The anguish escapes a little. Instead of bottling the feelings up, maybe that’s what he needed. To tell someone. Someone who actually cares.

As the words sink in, Tristan looks like he might be the one to break down, but he doesn’t. He leans forward and wraps his arms around Miles’ shoulders, holding him, securing him.

Warmth spreads over Miles’ tired body as he let’s himself relax in Tristan’s arms. Because it works. It takes some of the pain. Tristan whispers back, promises underlying the words.

 

“You will be."

 

And because Miles believes him, he hugs back, burying his face into the fabric of Tristan’s jacket, letting the tears go after all this time.


End file.
